Every day a dance, this dance, our dance, something artificial
something not for me--
I never liked dancing.
Being whole with my body like that,
letting it have its ways,
letting it have its rhythm.
I keep it under lock and key and
refuse it to gyrate or interlock or
any other such unbecoming nonsense,
yet there, fluorescent sheen
obscuring real shadow,
the interplay of bodies at war,
I dance.
Parry, ****** block, feint.
Move with your hips,
eyes, utterly captivated
and waiting I know not for what--
A touch? A whisper?
A look?
Nothing comes.
This dance is strained.
I pick bird feathers and flowers
and try and remind you.
Try to get between the tangles,
the well-placed tunnel of thorns,
see peeks behind the curls,
blush: it wasn't for me.
But how can I admit
(outside of my own silence,
fallen deep into books that hit
too close to the truth,
my bittersweet angst and waiting,
curled in myself)
how badly I need this dance?
How garish of me,
how corny,
how gross,
how unwelcome--
Yet I burn and I burn and
there's no balm
and I dance your dance
even once you've left,
haunted by your vermillion borders,
your honey,
freckles,
breath--
It's not for me, I know, I'm
sorry
that I burn this way.
Dec 16, 2025
Dec 16, 2025 at 9:14 PM UTC
Every day a dance, this dance, our dance, something artificial
something not for me--
I never liked dancing.
Being whole with my body like that,
letting it have its ways,
letting it have its rhythm.
I keep it under lock and key and
refuse it to gyrate or interlock or
any other such unbecoming nonsense,
yet there, fluorescent sheen
obscuring real shadow,
the interplay of bodies at war,
I dance.
Parry, ****** block, feint.
Move with your hips,
eyes, utterly captivated
and waiting I know not for what--
A touch? A whisper?
A look?
Nothing comes.
This dance is strained.
I pick bird feathers and flowers
and try and remind you.
Try to get between the tangles,
the well-placed tunnel of thorns,
see peeks behind the curls,
blush: it wasn't for me.
But how can I admit
(outside of my own silence,
fallen deep into books that hit
too close to the truth,
my bittersweet angst and waiting,
curled in myself)
how badly I need this dance?
How garish of me,
how corny,
how gross,
how unwelcome--
Yet I burn and I burn and
there's no balm
and I dance your dance
even once you've left,
haunted by your vermillion borders,
your honey,
freckles,
breath--
It's not for me, I know, I'm
sorry
that I burn this way.
I do not remember when I wrote this or who I wrote it about
